


Windsong

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Family, Gen, I enjoy making things that make me sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dís reacts to Thorin, his quest and the fact that her fool brother is taking her sons with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windsong

**Author's Note:**

> Short little ficlet, just because I quite like Dís, and I wanted to write about Dwarvish (Dwarven?) family units. Unbetaed, as is usual.

In retrospect, Thorin thinks he should have foreseen some resistance.

 

“And when did you think you would tell me this? Until after they had left Ered Luin long behind them?”

 

“You cannot protect them behind your skirts forever, Dís!” Thorin jerks back when Dís’ finger jabs into his face.

 

“Do not test my patience, Thorin. It’s enough that I find that you go behind my back to ‘recruit’ my sons; insulting me in my own home will not bode well for you or your health.”

 

“I did not go behind your back. I asked Fíli and Kíli directly, as is my right and theirs.”

 

“I should have known what you were up to. Asking that I would rule the Blue Mountains in your stead – this was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” Dís looks disappointed, which he thinks unfair. He has been nothing but upfront with her.

 

“I would have asked you even if I was not – as you say – stealing your sons away. You have done so before and proven yourself more than capable of ruling.” He quirks his eyebrows at her. “More capable than me, some would say.”

 

“Compliments will not mollify me.”

 

Thorin nods. It had been a feeble hope.

 

“What in Mahal's name possessed you so, that you would ask them this?” She rubs her forehead as if trying to ward off a headache. “What possessed them to agree?”

 

“They go because they would see Erebor returned –”

 

“They go because you ask it of them!” Dís roars angrily.

 

Thorin uncharacteristically holds his tongue. His sister starts to pace the length of the room, hands clasped behind her back.

 

“You may not have realised, brother, but my boys worship the ground you walk on. I do not begrudge them this. You have become a father to them, and I do not begrudge you that. But to throw their lives away, hunting dragons – have you so little regard for them?”

 

The words sting because they are untrue. This is what Thorin tells himself.

 

“They are my kin. I would not deny them their chance to reclaim their birthright.”

 

“They are not of age! And yet you ask them to accompany you on this folly of a quest –”

 

Thorin bristles. “It is not folly.”

 

“Tell me, then, aside from Fíli and Kíli, who will go with you? Who will go with you, other than _my_ sons?”

 

There is no shame in Thorin’s manner or voice as he recounts all ten others. Why should he be ashamed to be answered by willing Dwarves? “And before your frown grows ever more, I would make you aware that I am to meet with the Dwarves of the Iron Hills in Ered Luin.”

 

“And if Dáin does not come?”

 

“He will come,” he says dismissively.

 

Dís is unmoved. “If he does not?”

 

“Then I will march on Erebor with twelve Dwarves at my back and will feel no less for it!”

 

She purses her lips for a moment. “Why are you doing this?”

 

“You know why.” She’d been but ten years old when Smaug had desolated their home, but there is no doubt that she remembers, same as he. Remembers the noise and the heat and the fire and the death.

 

“No.” She shakes her head. “Why now?”

 

“I can no longer sit idly by while I know that foul creature still lives.” Thorin takes a breath. “And there is this.”

 

Dís takes the folded parchment handed to her, frown crinkling her strong brow. Her eyes widen. “This…”

 

“Father drew it, yes.” Seeing the question in her sharp glance, he explains, “It was given to me by the Grey Wizard. Gandalf.”

 

She makes no comment, only returning the map. Clearly she needs more evidence.

 

He coughs delicately. “There’s also the matter of the signs. Portents. Óin has –”

 

“ _Portents_?”

 

Thorin curses inwardly. He can tell by her dangerous tone that he has made a serious error.

 

Dís’ eyes flash. “You may put your head on the line all you like, with my blessing, but for you to risk the lives of my sons, because of portents –”

 

“Dís –”

 

“Get out!”

 

“Sister, please –”

 

“Get. _Out_.”

 

He goes.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Fíli and Kíli come to her, Dís has calmed herself.

 

She knows now that her reaction had been both apt and excessive. She had raised her sons in the way of their people; she should not have expected them to do anything but answer their King’s call. They are strong and brave and true, her sons, and they want nothing more than to prove themselves worthy of the blood flowing through their veins.

 

So, Dís cannot say she does not understand their reasoning. However, she is first and foremost a mother, and says nothing as her sons move to stand before her.

 

They stand shoulder to shoulder before the fireplace, Kíli taller than his older brother. He nudges Fíli in what he probably thinks is a discreet fashion.

 

“Mother,” Fíli starts, elbowing Kíli back. “We want to apologise for not telling you earlier about Thorin’s request… and our agreeing to it.”

 

“You want to apologise for not telling me about your agreement, or for agreeing?”

 

They exchange semi-panicked looks. “For not… telling you?”

 

Dís holds out her hands.

 

It’s with no small amount of relief that Fíli and Kíli grasp them. Kíli’s fingers are more slender than his brother’s, thinner and with telltale calluses from his bowstring. Fíli’s hand is rough and work-hardened and her hand fits in his like the pommel of a sword – natural, like it belongs there.

 

She tugs gently and both shuffle closer. She tugs again.

 

They kneel by her feet, like they had as children.

 

And, like she had when they were children, she opens her mouth and sings.

 

“The wind was on the withered heath, but in the forest stirred no leaf; there shadows lay by night and day, and dark things silent crept beneath…”

 

The fire is down to embers when Dís finishes the last verse, her voice never once faltering or cracking. Fíli and Kíli have their heads in her lap as she cards her fingers through their hair. Light and dark, as different as night and day, yet so alike. Her sons.

 

Her sons.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mother, you do not have to…”

 

“Hush. I want to.” She doesn’t look up at either of them. “But come close and learn; you two are useless at packing.”

 

Kíli whines, pulling a face. “But, Mother –!”

 

Fíli cuffs him around the head. “Come along, clot.” He softens the words with a smile and a fond headhold. They snipe and poke and wrestle each other playfully, and end up completely disregarding their mother’s demonstration. Never mind that they have long passed their first half-century and should really have grown out of such antics.

 

Dís does not mind. She doesn’t begrudge them this innocence, something they likely would not have kept had they been raised as princes in Erebor.

 

Soon enough they do settle down and deign to lend a hand; provisions, blankets, even spare clothes go into their packs. Dís watches them help each other with their armour and numerous weapons. When they present themselves to her, Fíli with his hair and moustache neatly braided and Kíli with – well, his hair is more tamed than usual –, Dís feels her heart skip. It’s filled with equal parts pride and heartbreak.

 

“My boys,” Dís says, sighing as she touches Kíli’s cheek, and then catches Fíli’s gaze. “Your father would have been so proud.”

 

Her youngest catches her hand, eyes bright. His right hand finds Fíli’s and they clutch at each other tightly. Fíli steps forward and presses his nose to his mother’s temple, completing the circle. They are all connected in this moment, breathing, alive.

 

Together.

 

Knocking sounds at the door, breaking the moment. Dís shudders in a breath before laying a hand on Kíli’s arm. “Go let your Uncle in.”

 

He hurries to do as told, the good lad. Dís tries to shake off the feeling that she is losing her sons. Fíli squeezes her fingers.

 

“I will look after him, Mother.”

 

She can do nothing more than nod, movements stilted. She knows that he will – he has spent 77 years watching over Kíli, after all.

 

Thorin walks in, seemingly uncaring of his being thrown out only yesterday. Or, apparently not, judging by the way he eyes his sister warily.

 

“Good morning, Dís.”

 

She nods, then lets go of Fíli’s hand. “Fíli, Kíli, go see to the ponies.”

 

“Yes, Mother.”

 

When Dís is kissed on each cheek by both sons, she smiles. But it slips off her face when they leave the room, packs over their shoulders. The loss is tangible, and her home feels all the colder for it.

 

She hardly notices the depth of her melancholy until Thorin touches her elbow lightly, eyes questioning.

 

“I cannot help the thought that this is the last I will ever see of them,” Dís confesses quietly.

 

“When were you cursed with foresight?”

 

She frowns at him. “It is not a curse in all instances.”

 

“In this it is.” Thorin glances to the side. “I cannot delay further. I came to see Fíli and Kíli on their way.”

 

“If any harm comes to either of them…” Dís sets her jaw. “May death find you quickly.”

 

Thorin cannot help but smile a little. “I will do my best to see them safe. Although they can very well take care of themselves.”

 

“That is beyond the point. Promise me.” She clasps his forearm. “You must.”

 

His fingers go around her forearm in return. “I will. I promise.”

 

Dís breathes for a moment, some tension draining from her shoulders. None of the lines on her face smoothen out, though. They press their foreheads together, brother and sister, 14 years apart in age and all the immediate family they have left.

 

“Go, then. Send us word once you have regained Erebor.”

 

His smile is wide now, and as genuine as she has ever seen it. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

When word is sent, Dís does not weep.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Dís sings is the Dwarven Song of Winds, from the Hobbit. I do not own it, or any of the characters, or the setting of the Hobbit.


End file.
